Invisible Enemies
by Nerd Alert
Summary: Tweek Tweak knows the truth: we are being manipulated. Be it by the government, or the supernatural, or even just each other... we are constantly being controlled. We just can't always detect it. crack fic! slash later on.


Invisible Enemies

**Disclaimer: **Neither the series "South Park" nor any of the characters involved belong to me. They are the property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker, and whoever else may have some share of the profits. Certainly not I.

**Author's Notes: **One of the _crackiest_ things I have written in quite a while. This will all take place from the point of view of Tweek Tweak, who is one of my favorite characters ever. He's so awesome. Anyway, if this all seems... non-linear, and insane, and rantish, that's because it's supposed to be. That's just how Tweek is.

**Warning! This contains vast amounts of profanity, conspiracy theorizing, and such insanity and foolishness that it may actually hurt your brain. Also, there will be mentions of Extremely Adult Themes, and yes, the capitalization was fully required. This story is also intended to be a slash story, which means if boys macking boys scares you, or makes you uncomfortable, than you'd best get out while you can. Along with that, there's recreational drug use, self inflicted pain, blah blah blah, _angsty teenager things_.**

* * *

I log onto my personal blog site, and twitch slightly as I read the hit counter. Six million, three-hundred and twenty-nine thousand, eight-hundred and one. Good. The truth spreads.

The name I give out on my website is Dead Eye. God, I want some coffee right now. So bad.

I click out of my own website and access Stan's. He doesn't know that I know that it's his website, because his given name is Une Salope. Stan and I have French II together, and I've known him for... like... years. So I know it's him, because of the guy's personality, and because Stan writes the name on his palms all the time. (It means "a bitch.")

Also, I hacked into his website once when I was high. Yeah.

Anyway, I click on his "Personal Gripes" sub-section and read the latest entry.

"I don't want anyone to have even a remote sense of how I feel. So just pretend it isn't me. Pretend it's, like, you. Or maybe a friend. Just... not me. Even though I know this blog will be less frequently accessed than my main page.

This is to my family. And my friends. And, well, really, everyone. The world gets more and more suckish as time progresses.

Why should I sit there, taking everything you throw at me? Why should it be my fault that our relatives waste our money, that so-and-so's in a gang now, that everyone's asking us for money? Why is it my fault that, oh, we're getting slightly less money than we were before, so we have to buy less useless garbage that only dad wants? Not like he uses the shit anyway.

Why should I have to hide in my room, trying to ignore everything? Trying to stop hearing, feeling, or even living at all? Just so that, for a moment, I feel alone, and maybe-- and this is a pathetic hope; it'll never happen, but I can dream-- that maybe I'm safe? That maybe I matter?

Why should I have to _get_ life already? Why should I, so young, have to accept it all, and give up my childhood? Why should I have to realize that, no, nothing is really ever fair, nothing is really ever just a coincidence, everything just happens, and you have to live with it or die, miserable?

Why should I have to retreat into worlds that don't exist, just to hide from the cruel reality that is you? Why should I have to stand back and just accept all of this crap around me?

Why should I have to pretend that I'm strong every day, and act like I'm happy all the time, when, really, I'm not always happy; I'm not always strong; I'm not as mature as I act, and you should know that, dammit, and you should cut me some fucking slack.

I'm in my fucking _teens_. I go to high school. Every day, I'm learning something new, from you, my friends, my school, my community, and, most important of all, from myself. Yelling and all that... will only be a hindrance to my much needed education of the world. I won't be able to become a functioning member of society.

As if my generation weren't already bad enough, apparently, we're all going to become sociopaths.

Whoop dee fucking doo. Let's all go run America into the fucking ground, then drive it in. Let's cover it in dirt, then grind it in with our mother fucking heels. Let's kill the world, guys! I know we can do it! COME ON!"

I'm kind of disappointed. I was hoping Stan would stay away from the Caps Lock this time, but then, you can't blame him. I click out of his window, too, and lean back in my chair, staring at my desktop. It's harshly bright against the pitch darkness of the rest of my house, and it hums slightly. He's been manipulated by everyone so much that he doesn't know how to properly outlet his rage anymore.

We've all been manipulated.

That's why I spend every day posting the truth; everyone has to know. It's all just a carefully constructed web of lies that we're caught in from the day we're born until the day we die. Most of us can never break out, and when we do, we have two choices: aid the manipulators, or inform the world at risk of our own lives.

That's how I used to see it, anyway. But eventually I figured out the truth behind the truth, that almost no one in the world has ever seen: you can do both.

I dart my eyes around to either side of the screen, and see them. The gnomes. They're always there, but since I was little, we've learned to cooperate. I taught them a better way to make a profit than stealing underpants, and now, instead of terrorize me, they admire me. I still hate them, though. Creepy, so creepy.

The lead gnome, who wears a yellow hat and has a white beard, nods quickly. They all march up to my window and hop out. I glance at the clock on my computer, and notice it's only three forty-seven in the morning.

I stare at the computer monitor. It's still humming, like always. The computer tower is, too. Sometimes it makes these little beepish clickish sounds when it loads something. Warmth flows out the back of it, and off the top of the monitor.

Jesus, I need some coffee right now. It's already been twenty-nine minutes and eleven seconds, twelve, thirteen... If I keep counting it'll be thirty minutes in no time and then what? I don't think I've gone half an hour without coffee since I was twelve years old.

It's been twenty-nine minutes and thirty-six seconds.

I get up swiftly out of my seat, and it spins as I speed walk through the door, down the cold hallway, into the kitchen. My warm feet stick to the cool tiles, and when I step, it makes tiny, spongey echoes across the attached living room.

"Percolator, percolator, oh dear sweet mother of Jesus the percolator," I whisper harshly to myself. My voice is harsh and strained, because my teeth are gritted and oh God ten more seconds and it will have been thirty minutes and if that happens I don't know what I'll do, I don't know!

My hands shake as I pour the coffee into some non-descript mug I got from... I don't know where I got it. My room? The kitchen counter? Space? Who cares?

I chug my coffee quickly, just before the two remaining seconds can pass, and sigh. It's bitter, and burns my throat like acid. I love it, pour another, chug that too. Another, this one with four liquid creamers, Irish Créme flavor. I don't even bother to stir them in, just pour them, swish the mug around a little (some of the hot coffee spills on my hand, and I don't even care, just bring my hand up and lick it off like a cat), and chug that, too.

"Good, so good," I mumble, dropping the mug in the sink.

My therapist told me I have an unhealthy dependence on coffee, and also that I need to relax about everything. That not everyone is out to get me.

But when the mug is filled with cold water and excess coffee is licked off of my lips, all of the shadows go away, and I remember that my therapist is just another manipulator. He can't get me, though. I'm a manipulator, and an informer, and a follower, all at the same time.

No one will ever get Tweek Tweak.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **So, um... if anyone knows what the hell I'm doing, you should tell me. Because I don't.


End file.
